Instead, he just glared at her sullenly. How can such a monster hide behind such a fair visage? Intimidating as she was, Nesnys was also comely, he had to admit. Her silver eyes were disturbing, but her face was pleasantly sculpted, with high cheekbones and full lips, her tall frame muscular yet womanly. He could see how Elyas might have been seduced by such evil.
Focused on her face as he was, he didn’t see her movement until too late. He doubted he could have done anything even if he was prepared, but it still came as a shock.
The pale tip of Nesnys’s bone dagger suddenly jutted through the back of his hand, his wrist still held in her unbreakable grip. Pain followed the shock a heartbeat later, a hot spike that stole his breath and left his broken fingers of the other hand forgotten. Blood dribbled down the tip of the dagger as he stared in horror.
“I’ve learned not to underestimate you, Taren.” Her breath was warm and tickled his ear as she leaned in close—intimately, as if she were sharing a secret. “And just to ensure you don’t think to do anything foolish should you try to run from me, know that the merest scratch of Bedlam Judge is fatal—this blade will unleash corruption throughout your body and snuff out your feeble life within moments.” She slipped the blade free of his hand.
Taren knew somewhere in the back of his mind he was hyperventilating, on the verge of panic. Seeing clear through the hole in his hand before it filled up with blood made him queasy. He turned and retched onto the floor.
Nesnys patted his cheek and rose to her feet. “Don’t go far, dear nephew. The only force keeping the corruption in check is my antimagic field. The moment you stray from it, your hourglass begins running out.” She laughed.
***
Elyas felt as though his head were literally splitting apart. His opponent had wrenched the Soulforge armor’s helm just enough for its hooks to tear dozens of tiny but agonizing wounds across his head, some of which felt as though they were even inside his skull.
The damn thing will rip my head to pulp.
Already, his vision was blurring, and troubling spasms of pain ran down the left side of his body. A muscle kept twitching uncontrollably in his cheek.
He lost the battle to remain on his feet when Nesnys activated her antimagic device, falling to his knees and only catching himself from dropping facedown with a hand to the ground. He didn’t know the extent of her belt’s power, but the wall crystals in the nearby area extinguished, and his Soulforge armor suddenly became inert. Its ponderous weight was surprising, perhaps as much as a hundred pounds, most of that unfelt while the enchantment was active. With the loss of the armor’s magic, the awful gnawing hunger seeking to drive him to kill was also gone, his head blessedly free of its influence for the first time since having donned the cursed armor.
Nesnys was sauntering toward Taren, who was huddled on the ground, terrified. Elyas knew with certainty she was savoring his fear and anxiety, driven by a powerful desire to torment him. The thought sickened Elyas, both at her twisted desires and the fact he knew her intimately enough to sense her feelings even without the armor’s connection.
His head throbbed, the pain so intense that breathing was hard. But it was only physical pain now, an honest pain, purifying almost. Without the armor’s suffocating presence, he found true clarity of thought for the first time in weeks.
And Elyas didn’t like the revelation those thoughts brought him. The remnant of himself was quick to remind him that he had betrayed everything he held dear—he had pissed on whatever honor and decency he had once aspired to by throwing in his lot with Nesnys—ultimately selling his soul to the demoness. The blood of untold thousands was on his hands, soon to be much more once the Tellurian Engine destroyed the world. And what stung the most was that he had personally betrayed Taren, Dorian, the sacrifices of his fellow Ketanian soldiers, and all the citizens who had relied on him for their protection.
One thought eventually broke through the cacophony of shame and guilt and self-loathing.
It is not too late to salvage this. Taren needs me.
Nesnys was just rising from where she had been kneeling beside Taren, blocking Elyas’s view of his cousin—tormenting him in some way, he was sure.
“Mistress,” he called.
She turned, frowning upon seeing Elyas down on hands and knees. She held her bone dagger in hand, a sheen of blood staining its pale blade.
Taren was staring horrified at his own hand, bleeding from a hole punched in the palm, as if it had escaped his control and might throttle him at any moment.
Elyas’s stomach knotted with apprehension at the sight. Nesnys’s dagger had always made him uneasy with its vile, warped nature, and he knew Taren was likely done for after a wound from the blade.
I must still try to set things right as best I can.
“What is it?” Nesnys snapped, lips twisting with disdain over his display of weakness.
“Allow me, Mistress.”
“Allow you what?”
“To strike the final blow.”
Her eyebrows rose, but she looked dubious. “You would slay your own cousin?”
“Look at him.” Elyas tried for a tone heavy with contempt. “He is weak and has tried to thwart our plans—our glory—at every turn. This world is ended now. His usefulness has passed. Please, allow me.”
Nesnys looked thoughtful as she approached him, a smile eventually curling her lips. “I had plans to keep the boy alive for a short time to witness his failure and the ruin of his world. But his death by the hand of his beloved cousin… Now, that I would like to see. If you’ve the stones to strike the blow.”
Elyas glanced at Taren, but his cousin stared unseeing, eyes glazed and face pallid. Elyas struggled to rise, extending a hand to Nesnys. She reflexively gripped his left forearm to pull him to his feet. Blocked from her view by the bulk of his armored body, his fingers quested out blindly and then curled around the hilt of his sword. Instead of rising to his feet with her help, he instead hauled her a step closer. With the Soulforge armor’s enchantment nullified by the antimagic zone, she couldn’t read his treachery until too late.
Her eyes widened an instant before the sword tip struck the dead center of her belt’s glowing jewel, the source generating the antimagic zone. His sword’s enchantment was suppressed, but it was still a masterwork piece of steel, and Nesnys had seen to it that his thews were honed by months of fighting in the Pits of Leciras.
The gem shattered, and its light went dim. His sword thrust continued on, piercing Nesnys’s armor and sliding deep into her belly.
She stiffened and let out a quiet gasp of pain. The two of them remained locked in that position a long moment. Dark ichor ran down the blade to the crossguard of his sword—the sword of his father Wyat, the great hero of Nexus.
I hope this will redeem some of the dishonor I’ve brought upon your sword, as well as your memory, Da.
Nesnys finally released his arm, backing away, the sword sliding free of her belly with a gout of ichor. The rage he expected to see on her face was surprisingly absent—instead merely confusion. If she had been anyone else, he might say a bit of hurt was also present in her countenance.
“Why? What have you done?” She took an unsteady step toward him, then another. “After all I have given you, Elyas. We stand victorious, conquerors of Easilon. Even now, it trembles and falls unto ruin.”
“I can’t allow you to kill Taren. Or destroy this world.” He let the sword drop, its shiny steel coated with what looked like oil in the gloom.
A laugh escaped Nesnys—sharp and bitter, one of disbelief. “Fool, you are too late—on both counts. Taren is already dead, and this world will soon follow.”
He cast another glance at Taren, horrified to see the truth of her words. Black streaks of corruption were running up his arm.
Nesnys stepped forward, close enough to drape her arms across his shoulders. He remained on his knees, and his visored helm pressed against the swell of her armored breasts. Nesnys released the
catch on his helm and raised his visor.
Their eyes met, and he watched her self-control slip away, rage coming over her like the swift fury of a thunderstorm.
“You think to betray me? You are a fool if you think to escape me. Achronia shall be your new home, where I’ll enjoy torturing you until the end of time, you worthless fool.”
The Soulforge armor was recovering after the destruction of the antimagic gem. He could feel her hot, murderous fury pounding through their restored linkage.
“You want to be free of me so badly, do you? Then enjoy your final moments of freedom… until we meet again. I no longer have a use for you.” Almost tenderly, she unclasped the linkage between helm and gorget.
“Anhur, have mercy on my soul.” He knew what she was about to do and closed his eyes in anticipation.
Then she ripped his helmet off.
White-hot agony overwhelmed Elyas as wicked hooks rent apart skin, bone, and the soft tissue beneath. Nesnys faded and was gone then, as was the Hall of the Artificers.
Elyas saw himself again as a lad, victorious in a wrestling competition at a local wedding celebration, when some of the men dubbed him Ironshanks, filling him with youthful pride. He recalled the many hours spent in the woods hunting and fishing with Taren, the honest work performed around the farm. The excitement of hunting down and fighting a wyvern alongside his father, Arron, and Taren. Drinking ale in Swanford with his friends and a young woman he fancied, named Bretta, sitting on his lap. Years spent training with the sword with his father, a great hero he’d idolized in his youth.
Later, he relived in an instant his camaraderie with Glin, Kavia, and others as they fought to protect their people and lands and way of life. Training and fighting side by side with his friend Harlan as they strove to survive the brutality of the Pits of Leciras. Sparing Queen Sianna and Jahn’s lives on the battlefield. And at the last, wounding Nesnys and destroying her antimagic device to allow Taren and his companions a desperate chance to defeat Shaol’s malevolent schemes.
Elyas reckoned he might be able to take some pride in those deeds as he passed on, despite the black stains on his soul.
And finally, blessed oblivion wrapped him in velvety arms.
***
Taren felt the exact moment Nesnys’s antimagic gem was destroyed. He saw Elyas run her through, and an instant later, a cold fire of agony burned in his hand, swiftly advancing into his wrist. True to her word, corruption was spreading black veins across his skin. His fingers had gone numb already, and he could feel the icy burn as the corruption spread through him. The pain of the broken fingers of his right hand was forgotten. Momentary panic seized him.
He tried to force himself to remain calm and study the wound’s effects in his restored second sight, but he saw little that was different. Inky blobs of the death magic necrosed his flesh, devouring and destroying the healthy aura of his vitality.
Sabyl help me. To come this close, only to fail… Please allow my magic to cleanse me of this. After tense moments struggling to ignore the creeping corruption, he was able to concentrate enough to recapture his hold on the magic. His mana well instantly filled from the torrent of earth magic.
He poured magic into his arm, targeting the negative energy and trying to burn the corruption out. Every nerve became fire, and he screamed as he poured power into his arm. After a moment, he had to let his efforts subside, overwhelmed by the pain. He gritted his teeth as his arm spasmed, nerves flaring wildly. His heart sank when he still saw the black veins standing out against his skin, past his elbow and crawling toward his shoulder now. The best he could hope to do was slow its progress slightly, but its rate of spread increased the moment he relented.
Gods, this it it. Failure at the end. He slumped against the wall again as weakness overcame him, the icy burn wrapping itself around his shoulder. In moments, it will reach my heart, then I will be dead.
A heartrending scream sounded, and he looked over just as Elyas hit the ground. His head was a glistening pulp. Nesnys held in her hands the snarling-fiend helm Elyas had worn. She watched, seemingly entranced, as blood and pale gobbets dripped out of the helm for a long moment before she tossed it aside. The demoness took a couple of steps, then her legs gave out and she fell.
“Taren.”
Mira was crawling toward him. She was leaving a trail of blood, but her eyes were locked on his, feverish with determination to reach his side.
“Oh, Mira. I’m so sorry… All of this, only to end in failure.” He crawled to her and sagged down beside her, their faces inches apart. He rested his swollen hand on hers, the broken fingers jutting out awkwardly.
Mira’s face was ashen, her lips turning blue. The side of her tunic was soaked with blood. Taren was amazed she was still drawing breath, with her wounds.
“Let me take it from you,” she gasped. Her warm eyes held his, and she clutched his hand. “Lie still… I can do this one last deed for you.”
Taren shivered involuntarily as the corruption spread past his shoulder and into his chest, wracking him with chills. “Not long now.” He was so tired and cold, shuddering from the chill of the death magic. He had no energy left to protest and lay back at her urging.
Mira dragged herself closer until she leaned over him.
“Live well, Taren. End this threat to the Balance.” She kissed him on the forehead then maneuvered her broken arm so her hand was resting over his heart. With her other hand, she grasped his tainted arm. Mira’s pain-wracked features smoothed into a look of intense focus.
Suddenly, Taren felt her spirit joined to his own. The sensation startled him, similar to their psionic bond but much greater than that. Mira was inside his body somehow, the two of them joined by an intimacy he’d never imagined. His deathly chill subsided, and he felt the warmth of her presence, as if she were holding him in a tender embrace. Resoluteness and an unconditional love radiated from her, and he felt shame at the fact he hadn’t shown her the kindness and gratitude she deserved.
She deserves to live, damn it! Such a gentle soul—the best of us.
“I’m fulfilled with this life, Taren. It’s been my greatest honor to call you friend.” He didn’t know whether she was speaking aloud or in his thoughts, but it was all the same at that point. He could feel her doing something to his body as if from a distance, tugging at that awful corrupting essence, tearing it away as if uprooting an expanse of thorny vines.
“Mira, don’t do this! There must be another way.”
“This is the only way.” Her voice was weakening, filled with tremendous strain, yet that impossible tenacity continued to draw the corruption free as she had once taken his wounds upon herself. The sensation was so powerful that he briefly wondered if he’d end up in her body, pulled free of his own dying shell.
“You have my undying gratitude, Mira. I could never have asked for a better friend and companion. May the Weave guide your steps to the afterlife.”
Then Mira was drawing away, struggling mightily with the terrible burden she’d removed from him. When her spirit departed, he was alone in himself once more, although his own self now felt like a long-abandoned house, bereft of warmth and life. A deep sense of loss rushed in to fill the void.
The small, sad smile on Mira’s spiritual lips as she pulled away broke Taren’s heart. “Grieve not for me, Taren. Death is not the end, merely one stop along the path, one I shall follow to a higher state of being. You will never truly be without me, and I look forward to the day we meet again.” An intense joy suddenly replaced her awful suffering.
Then Mira was gone, and a tide of wrenching loss overwhelmed him.
Feeling rushed back into his flesh, the deathly cold gone. Strength returned, as did the pain of his wounds. Taren held up his afflicted arm before himself, and the flesh looked wholesome, as it had before. The corruption was entirely gone, although the hole in his palm still bled.
He rose on one elbow and gasped when he saw Mira, who had fallen onto her back. Her eyes we
re wide and staring, the whites stained crimson from burst blood vessels. Her face and neck were mottled with the black veins of corruption, and he had no doubt they had burrowed down to strangle off her heart.
“I’m so sorry, Mira.” Tears streamed unchecked as he gently closed her eyes. He leaned over and kissed her forehead in return. “Your sacrifice shall not be in vain. I will destroy Nesnys and stop this damned machine. The Balance shall be restored.”
Close on the heels of his anguish was a simmering rage that burst into a conflagration once he regained his feet and his eyes locked on Nesnys. This bitch is going to pay for all she has done.
The magic was yearning to be wielded, and Taren did so without hesitation.
Chapter 54
Jase had to admit the turnout was impressive. Every swinging cock and pair of bouncy tits in the city had shown up to enthusiastically welcome Queen Sianna Atreus home, it seemed. Undoubtedly, very few of them could have recognized the difference between her and a dressed-up whore, but even Jase had to admit she cut a regal figure.
Sianna rode a snowy mare and was decked out in a polished breastplate over a blue-and-white riding gown, the colors of her royal house, which matched her standard. Her auburn hair gleamed like burnished copper in the pale afternoon sunshine, and her face was lovely and regal. A pretty blond woman rode beside her along with Lords Lanthas and MacTaggert just behind, the latter with a broad grin on his face that surely would have infuriated Regent Calcote. A number of formidable bodyguards crowded around the young queen, while advisors and officers rode farther back. A unit of soldiers, several hundred strong, paraded down the street behind the procession. City watchmen preceded the entourage, clearing the way and holding the crowd at bay.
Damn shame to put down such a pretty wench. Jase was tempted for a brief moment to give her a pass and leave Calcote with his arse cheeks flapping in the wind. He chuckled to himself at the repulsive image that brought to mind.
Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3) Page 48
